


dearest, i can only hope most people are nothing like you

by bruised_fruit



Series: headcanon compliant [21]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2020-05-02 03:45:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19191241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bruised_fruit/pseuds/bruised_fruit
Summary: She kisses him on the forehead when she places his plate down in front of him. It’s all very domestic.





	dearest, i can only hope most people are nothing like you

**Author's Note:**

> this is a repost. title from tmbg's "mrs bluebeard"

“Make me stop loving you,” he tells her.

That did it, maybe.

Her body is old, but she’s still so much stronger than him. She sweeps him up off his feet like clockwork, and he claws at her back, swearing. He can feel himself getting hard, and she can too, the way he’s pressed against her chest, so she throws him onto the couch.

“Fuck!”

Her voice hurts.

“I don’t  _care_ ,” he says, panting. “Please, Lucretia.”

He palms at himself, and that’s enough for her to climb over him and press her lips to his, crushing and chaste all at once. She draws back. There’s regret and anger on her face, sure, but she knows he can feel her, that she wants it too, and she hates it, and  _fuck_ , she wants him.

He’s already moving to pull off his ring when she breathes something about getting hers. She might be willing to fuck him, but not in his cunt, not today.

\--

She cooks him breakfast. He’d made the coffee and sat in bed with her for an hour before she’d moved to drink it.

She kisses him on the forehead when she places his plate down in front of him. It’s all very domestic.

But she says, “I knew this would happen,” once she’s sat down with hers, and she sounds very tired.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, and he probably is, for the most part. “We’re both lonely, though, right? We need this.”

“I guess,” she says, spearing a strawberry with her fork.

He looks at her intently for a moment. “You seem a lot better than last time.”

She is, but she doesn’t say that.

\--

“When are you coming back?” she asks out of the silent dark.

He doesn’t want to leave. The two of them are well familiar with how badly he needs to leave. Three days is pushing it.

He kisses her chest instead of answering. 

“What if I die while you’re at sea?” 

He straddles her. He’s too warm and slick and familiar against her stomach, and she flushes. She’s got this aching need, and his kind words, his body, his very presence are her only reprieve. And she misses this, they both do. He still doesn’t really answer, but she sees the glint of his smile in the dim light and musters up her best scowl. She just wants to know he'll be back and when.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, hands running over her chest now, and she swears at the touch. It's a decent distraction. 

“Little brat,” she mutters, and he grins again.

“Love you too,” he says. He lays down on top of her, head nestled in the crook of his neck, and they fall asleep like that.

\--

They’re in the bath together, and he’ll leave tomorrow morning.

They try not to think about it. She’ll go back to eating only when the crew is around, forgetting how to write, praying a little. He’ll go back to the nothingness of ocean, a place where time and identities and conversations don’t exist.

They kiss. They muster up as much tenderness as they’ll allow themselves. There’s a sort of mutual fragility to them that hangs in the air, suffocatingly so.

Once they’re out, she’s too tired for sex, and he organizes her desk for her while she lays in bed, watching him. It’s an odd parallel to the decades where she’d paint and write while he’d watch. (Enthralled, if that word could ever have an affectionate meaning.)

He finds a few small paintings all stuck together. They have a thick impasto, and they’re impressionistic in a way that leaves him breathless with awe. He tells her how lovely they are, and she looks away like she’s embarrassed.

He climbs into her arms. He hopes they’ll sleep in tomorrow.

\--

It’s so good not to talk to people, or he misses it. What a relief not to think about her, or she’s all he thinks about anyway. He goes months alone; he’s still recovering, or he’s only making it all so much worse for himself. He’s angry and desperate, a tiny remnant of what he used to be, or what he could have been with a fair start. He craves her sometimes, in the most disgusting way.

He could come back snarling and messy, or mock-at peace and so resentful at her hesitance, her restraint. He could come back needy, limerent, broken. He could come back like an old lover. But he’ll come back, and for the both of them, that knowledge is enough.


End file.
